Hellos and Havens
by starry19
Summary: Pre 6x09 - "They had been through so much together over the years, dealt with murders and conspiracies and corruption. Had shared knowing looks across the bullpen, kept vigil at each other's hospital beds, had killed people in the other's defense. No one else would ever understand what her life had been. But Jane did."


**AN:** This is based entirely off of speculation and sneak peeks and what my poor shipper heart wants to happen. I wasn't going to write this, but a) I gave into peer pressure (thanks, Twitter) and b) my brain won't shut up until I put this down on paper. Er, a Word document.

I've only watched Red John once, and I _will_ only watch it once, mainly because the extras at the end quite literally turned me into an emotional wreck. But one thought – when that Blake Association guy was frisking Jane, how the hell did he miss a pigeon?

**Hellos and Havens**

The nice thing about being a sheriff in a small town was that you got to know nearly everyone on a personal level. You knew their children, knew about the football team's chances of making it to the state playoffs, knew where the big parties were going to be on Saturday night, and knew who was probably making meth in their basement.

Most of the time, it made her job easier, something for which she was very thankful.

There were times, however, when it could be a burden. Days when she just wanted to get back to the office and finish her paperwork and get a fresh cup of coffee without half the town stopping her for a quick chat.

She was a novelty here, a former CBI agent, somehow mixed up in whatever had gone down when the integrity of California's law enforcement system had been called into question. It had taken the town a while to adjust to her, but it seemed like they had finally accepted her as one of their own.

To that end, a simple trip to city hall had turned into a two hour long process, hampered by friendly citizens and a clerk of court who had spent a half hour showing Lisbon pictures of his newborn son. The kid was adorable, but a two week old tended to look the same in about every picture – asleep.

By the time she got back to the sheriff's office, she was slightly annoyed and eager to get on with her actual work. She snagged an armload of files from her assistant, thinking she would dump these on her desk and then head to the breakroom for coffee. Her department had just busted a big (for them) case wide open, and she had celebrated by stocking the station up on good coffee instead of whatever could be bought in bulk from WalMart.

Nose buried in the first folder on the pile, she pushed open her office door without looking. She had taken no more than two steps inside when she realized she wasn't alone.

She looked up.

The stack of files slipped through her suddenly numb hands.

Patrick Jane was sitting on her couch, the couch she had brought with her from the CBI, the couch that he had bought her, legs crossed negligently, cup of tea in one hand, looking exactly too good to be real.

He stood, setting his tea down on the table next to the couch.

"Hi, Lisbon," he said.

All she could do was stare.

His hair was a mess, his skin far tanner than she had ever seen it. He was wearing most of a suit, but it was decidedly wrinkled. He could have been the Patrick Jane she had met eleven years ago, but there was something different. The edge of darkness and mourning that had constantly hovered around him was gone, replaced with a new, bright aura.

Still, his wedding ring was firmly lodged on his hand.

But then he smiled broadly at her, and before she knew quite how it happened, she was in his arms, her fingers digging into his back, his chin resting on her shoulder. He smelled like Jane, something that she had desperately missed for two years now.

As suddenly as their embrace had begun, she stepped back. Jane kept his hands curled around her wrists, like he wasn't ready to let go.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, tone angry. She hadn't meant to say _that_, specifically, but it had just sort of slipped out. "Do you want to go to prison?"

His grin widened, green eyes sparkling was amusement. "I missed you, too," he chuckled.

"Jane," she said, earnestly, "_you're still wanted for murder_. You can't just show up at a police station!"

He searched her face for a moment. Then, "No one told you, did they?" He sighed. "Not that I'm surprised, really. Lisbon," he went on, "the FBI found me in Ecuador and offered me a job as a consultant. Naturally, dropping all charges was going to be a part of the deal. Besides, I don't think anyone was really looking forward to prosecuting me for killing McAllister."

She glanced at the hands circled around her own. Jane had strangled someone with them.

"A consultant with the FBI," she said finally, faintly. "All charges dropped."

His thumb brushed over the pulse in her wrist. "That's what I said."

It suddenly hit her that _Patrick Jane_ was standing in her office, casually telling her that he was back, that his days on the run were over. Jane, whom she had missed so intensely sometimes she thought she would die of it.

"I need to sit down," she whispered, and Jane guided her to the couch, one arm draped over the cushions at her back.

It was entirely possible that this was a dream, she supposed. That's what most of her dreams consisted of anyway – both at night and when she spaced off during the day. In them, Jane would just show up wherever she was, looking so handsome it should be illegal, smiling at her in that one particular way that made her bones feel like they were melting.

Much like he had done today.

Hesitantly, she reached out and poked his chest. It felt solid enough. "Just checking," she said quietly, and he laughed.

"God, it's so good to see you," he said. "You look wonderful. I'm digging the uniform."

A giggle burst unexpectedly from her chest, and it sounded a little like a sob. Naturally, Jane noticed. His hand slipped down to her shoulder.

"It's alright, Teresa," he murmured. "It's going to be alright, I promise."

She sniffled, and he pulled her forward for another hug.

They were quiet for the next few minutes. She focused on breathing deeply, letting the knowledge that Jane really was here sink in. Although she had always hoped, there was a good part of her that had wondered if she would ever see him again, if she would ever get a chance to tell him everything that had been in her heart for the past decade.

She had missed him so, _so_ much. When the letters started coming, and the seashells, she was happy for him. If there was anyone who deserved the pleasure life on a beach brought, it was Jane.

But it had made her unbelievably sad. Jane was free now, getting on with his life, finding a way to finally be happy.

And she was still here. Still waiting. Still being a cop because that's who she was. It felt like she was living a shadow of her old self. She had gone from tracking serial killers and some of the most dangerous criminals in the state of California to busting up high school parties.

On her worst days, she couldn't help but feel like she was wasting her life.

In this moment, though, it didn't seem to matter. Jane brushed a hand down her hair, and she thought her heart just might burst.

They had been through so much together over the years, dealt with murders and conspiracies and corruption. Had shared knowing looks across the bullpen, kept vigil at each other's hospital beds, had killed people in the other's defense.

No one else would ever understand what her life had been.

But Jane did.

He knew everything about her, despite what she'd told him once in a fit of pique. _Everything_ – from the size of her shoes to her favorite perfume to how often she went to church. He'd made it a point to know these things. No one else had ever bothered.

When she'd lost him, it felt like losing a part of herself. Jane had defined who she was as a person for eleven years, and he was gone in a day. It felt shameful to admit it, like she shouldn't rely on someone else for her identity, but it didn't change things.

She was Teresa Lisbon. She was a good cop, and she was Patrick Jane's partner.

Eventually, she raised her head from its place against his heart and took in his face again. "You look a little rough around the edges," she teased.

He smiled. "Beach living, I'm afraid. Not a lot of emphasis on shaving." He rubbed a hand over his facial hair to drive his point home.

"Or sunscreen," she added. The creases in his face were white compared to the rest of him.

Jane waved dismissively. "Meh," and her answering smile was too wide, she was sure. God, he was _here_.

She took the rest of the day off, leaving the files where they had fallen. It all seemed unimportant in the face of everything else. She got a bevy of strange and bewildered looks as she left the office, face flushed with a strange man hovering at her elbow.

They had gone to lunch, her heart contracting again when Jane ordered tea and eggs. It was like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

She caught him up on where the old team was, how they were faring since the collapse of the CBI. In turn, he told her about what he had been doing for the past two years, which was essentially nothing. Surfing, living in another hotel room, spending his days taking naps on the sand instead of a couch.

"So," she finally said, "what the plan for you now?" They had left the diner, and were sitting on a bench in the middle of the small city park. It was eerily reminiscent of the last day she had seen him.

He shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a consultant again, just for the FBI. I didn't really have a choice – it was either take the job or get arrested on the spot. I have a few days before I'm officially supposed to show up."

Something funny clenched in her chest. He was leaving again. Making a life without her once more. She should be nothing but happy. He was in the country as something other than a wanted fugitive. But she had always thought that if he came back, they would be…well, maybe not together, but doing something where they saw each other every day.

A less perceptive man than Jane would have had no problem reading her face. "Trust me," he said, "I have a plan." And that was it.

She offered him a small smile. "You always do."

He came to her place for dinner that night, bottle of wine cradled in one arm. "I love it," was the first thing he said as he stepped over the threshold, his generic rental car resting against the curb outside.

Housing prices were drastically different here than they had been in Sacramento, so even on her salary she had been able to afford an actual house. It wasn't anything spectacular, but it suited her just fine. She had even spent some time decorating and the place looked like a real home.

Of course, she didn't admit that the reason it looked like someone lived there was because she had no social life. Still.

They talked constantly over the meal of hastily prepared spaghetti. She had no idea what the food tasted like, but did know she hadn't smiled so much in years.

As Jane helped her clean the kitchen later, opening cupboards like he owned the place, her heart caught in her throat again. It must be worth something, that he had spent his first days back in the country coming to find her.

When the dishwasher was humming industrially, they sat on the steps of her back porch in the gathering darkness, shoulders touching, fresh glasses of wine dangling from their fingertips. The last rays of a spectacular sunset were streaking the sky with fiery oranges and reds, and she vividly remembered how it felt the last time they had shared a sunset. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and it might as well have been.

"I really did miss you," Jane said quietly, "You will never know how much."

She gave a sad little smile. "I bet I can make a pretty good guess."

"I lost track of the times I almost sent you a plane ticket," he admitted.

There was a pause. Then, "I would have come," she whispered.

Although she could no longer see his face in the night, she knew he was smiling. "I know."

Eventually the temperature dropped enough to send them inside. She tossed a pillow at his head. "I've been counting your glasses of wine. Don't even think about driving." In truth, she knew he was probably nowhere near drunk. She simply wasn't ready to give him up.

He complied easily, lanky form stretching out on her couch, just like he had done a thousand times before. Well, not in her living room, but the picture he made was the same.

"Lisbon?" His voice carried through to her open bedroom door as she curled under the covers.

"Hm?"

"I would have come back eventually, even if I was still being chased by the FBI." He sounded almost shy, hesitant.

"You were going to turn yourself in?" she asked, confused now.

She heard him chuckle. "No," he said. "The thing is…" he trailed off, searching for words. "I guess I just didn't know what to do with my life if you weren't bossing me around." It was spoken lightly, but the meaning was very deep. He was saying he would have come back because of her, murder charges or no.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, emotions starting to shiver through her veins. "I'm happy to boss you around whenever you want," she finally said, trying to mirror his casual tone.

"I'm counting on it," he replied.

They were silent after that, though she knew he wasn't asleep. Her immediate instinct was to join him on the couch, to feel his rough beard against her skin, but she held herself in check.

It was hard to believe that twenty four hours ago, she had gone to bed like she normally did, wondering where Jane was and what he was doing. And now…now he was on her couch, twenty feet away. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

He had come back to her.

She would deal with everything else in the morning.

**AN:** Yeah, not my best work, I know. But my brain informed me that this needed written, so there you have it.


End file.
